Miss Gabriel's Gambit

by Rita Boucher

  Her voice was calm, but the flow of tears continued unabated. “Because my uncle was your friend, I shall give you a piece of advice. Stay away from me, else you might find yourself in a dangerous position,” she said. If Hugo were to somehow get wind of David’s less than casual interest in her, he could be in serious jeopardy.

  “And as a friend,” David said quietly, “I would warn you against Highslip.”

  “You are not my friend, milord. I begin to believe you never truly were. As for Hugo, that is my affair.”

  Sylvia turned, fleeing from the garden to the nursery stair.

  David took off his glasses, polishing them absently as he tried to control the sudden turmoil within. As he reviewed his words, they seemed totally clear, his proposal to Sylvia perfectly logical. Yet, he was growing increasingly certain that he had missed some critical move, that rationality notwithstanding, there was some hidden flaw that he had overlooked. He left the garden feeling a sense of absolute loss.

  David suddenly knew the critical piece that he had ignored, as he departed the Gabriel household, as unremarked leaving as he had been entering. He loved her. Re-examining the course of events, he realized that Sylvia had spoken no less than the truth. He had wanted her, almost from the start, but had ignored his feelings because there had been no honorable course to pursue.

  The overheard conversation in the garden had presented him with a seeming solution to his problem; he desired Sylvia; there was no reasonable route to her affections. A dishonorable route had presented itself and he had taken the move like a green player, not pausing to think of all the possible consequences. Now, he had lost her, and as with most foolish moves, the consequences might be impossible to correct. He only knew that somehow, he had to redeem himself.

  * * * *

  Sylvia threw herself into the preparations for Caroline’s ball, running about the house in a veritable frenzy of activity, trying to keep her thoughts at bay. Yet, at odd moments, the memory of David’s face haunted her, his look of utter disgust, the insult of his kiss. Hardest of all to bear was the absolute betrayal of her emotions. The morning’s events ought to have utterly cured her of any feelings for that wretched man, but she knew that she loved him and likely always would. His offer had been the worst of affronts, yet a part of her was tempted to accept; told her it would be preferable to be David’s lover even temporarily than Highslip's slave forever.

  “Sylvia,” Will called, meeting her later in the afternoon upon the back-stair.

  The smile upon his face made her hope that he had come up with some solution to his dilemma.

  “I have spoken with the fellow who holds my vowels,” Will declared enthusiastically. “He has promised to give me all the time I need, says he is sure that we might work something out. A capital fellow. I am sorry to have troubled you Syl. I ought not to have dumped this in your skirts.”

  It was all Sylvia could do to keep from screaming at her brother’s beaming face. He wants me to work it out as his mistress, you looby! A capital fellow indeed! But, with a speed borne of habit she calculated the possible consequences of such a move. Will would undoubtedly feel constrained to challenge Hugo to a duel. Hugo would without any question kill the boy. So, the alternatives were either, Will’s ruin or Will’s death or, she added reluctantly, her ruin.

  Sylvia patted her brother on the hand. “That is splendid, Will,” she lied. “But you must realize that the debt must be paid.”

  “I have reckoned that if I set aside a portion of my quarterly allowance at a rate of-” Will began.

  Sylvia realized that she would indeed scream if she had to stand through Will’s careful calculations and she cut him off abruptly. “Another time, please. I am terribly busy.”

  “You look utterly fagged,” the young man said with a brother’s brutal honesty.

  “Thank you, Will,” Sylvia said with a sigh as she continued the climb to the nursery. She found Miles in the schoolroom, racing to and fro with an enormous kite trailing behind him.

  “Lord Donhill brought it for me,” the boy volunteered. “Ain’t it the most wonderful kite ever? The eyes are real gilt. You think we could go flying it with Lord Donhill soon?”

  “I think not,” Sylvia said, collapsing into a chair before the barrage of questions. “Lord Donhill is a very busy man and right now, I am afraid your Mama cannot spare me.”

  “Pooh!” Miles exclaimed. “You are always too busy to have any fun these days. How long is it till Caro’s stupid ball is over? Can we go after?”

  “One week,” Sylvia said, bowing her head. One week before she must give Hugo her answer. Once more, she weighed all the alternatives, considered all the consequences, but there was no solution. She was trapped; any way that she looked at it, it was check and mate.

  “One week?” Miles spoke as if it was an eternity. “Do you think Lord Donhill could come then?”

  “I do not know, Miles,” Sylvia said, wearily. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

  “If you were married to him, we could see Lord Donhill all the time,” Miles said, swishing the kite round his head.

  Sylvia looked up, startled.

  Miles saw her strange expression and continued on the same tack, driving his point home. “You could beat him at chess n’ marry him and then he could come kite flying.”

  “But you wished to marry me, dear boy,” Sylvia said, her eyes shining. Out of the mouths of babes, they said.

  “Well, if you married Lord Donhill, he might get me more kites,” Miles said.

  “Wretch!” But contrarily, Sylvia ran to the boy and hugged him, disregarding his squeal of dismay.

  “Be careful,” he cried. “You shall wreck my kite!”

  She let Miles go and beamed. “We shall go kite flying after Caro’s ball,” she promised. “And to Gunther’s for an ice.”

  “Really?” Miles asked. “Gunther’s?”

  Sylvia nodded.

  “And what about Lord Donhill?” Miles asked, refusing to let the matter die. “Will he come?”

  “I suspect,” Sylvia said, a slow smile dawning. “That it might take Lord Donhill some time to recover.”

  “Is he ill?” Miles asked, worried. “He seemed quite fine to me this morning.”

  “No, he is not ill, but I suspect he may soon be suffering a small crise de nerfs,” Sylvia said. “He will take his medicine and it may be rather hard to swallow.”

  Miles looked at Sylvia in puzzlement, deciding to keep his peace. Sometimes, with older people, it was better not to ask questions.

  Chapter 9

  White’s was unnaturally well populated for early upon a rainy morning. Flocks of fashionable sprigs pestered Ivan Petrov, trying to discern the truth of the rumors regarding Lord Donhill’s anticipated chess match. Brummel’s expression equaled the grey mizzle that prevailed out of doors as he dispersed the hangers-on with an icy stare and gestured the Russian to a seat in the bow window overlooking St. James Street. Neither of the men noticed Lord Highslip lounging at the corner, hoping to overhear their conversation.

  “I cannot like it, Petrov,” Brummel said, shaking his head. “David has agreed to all of this ‘Madame Echec’s’ conditions without question.”

  “Everything she asks,” Petrov agreed miserably. “This woman is clever without doubt. No other challenger has been thinking to disguise self to protect reputation, but is not that gives me worry, Brummel. Is almost seeming to me David is wishing to lose.”

  “He would not lose deliberately!” Brummel exclaimed, drawing himself up in indignation at the very thought.

  “Nyet, nyet,” Petrov corrected himself hastily. “Never would he be doing so. Is just that these past days, he cares for nothing.”

  “He has agreed for the game to be timed by some sort of hourglass contraption. How does that work precisely?” Brummel asked.

  “Is simple device,” Petrov explained. “Two hourglasses, one for each. His hourglass running, David makes move, stops his hourglass, sets challenger’s runn
ing. Is finished her move; she is starting his going again. Is going on till one is winning or sand is running out.”

  “And if the sand runs out, it is forfeit?” Brummel asked.

  “Is correct,” Petrov said, his expression worried. “One is losing by check mate or time. I am never seeing David play this way before.”

  Highslip quietly withdrew from his listening post, smiling in satisfaction. Perhaps this mysterious female would succeed where Helena Greenvale had failed. While the odds were still decidedly in Lord Donhill’s favor, Highslip decided to risk a wager upon Madame Echec. Even a small bet could pay off handsomely.

  Just before the appointed hour, 37 St. James all but emptied as a parade of umbrellas proceeded from White’s down the street to the Cocoa Tree chocolate house, the chosen meeting place. Even for so sacred a cause as a wager, no female could be allowed to trespass in the male sanctum sanctorum.

  “Are you not going, Byron?” Brummel asked, noticing the poetic lord still reading by the fireside.

  “Life is too short for chess,” Byron said, returning his attention to his volume. “Perhaps, I shall stop by later.”

  As he went out the door, Brummel reflected that David’s fate might very well be decided before Byron bestirred himself. With those damnable hourglasses taken into account, contrary to what the poet said, the game of chess might prove to be too short and at stake was nothing less than David’s life.

  At the chocolate house, David sat before the table setting up the board. A young man hesitantly came up to the chessmaster, his boyish looks oddly familiar.

  “Good luck, Lord Donhill,” the youth said, extending his hand shyly, “I am sorry that we have had no chance to meet before. I am William Gabriel.”

  “Ah, Gabriel,” David said, his confusion clearing. The lad resembled his sister, heart-breakingly so. It was a pity that the young man had not come up sooner, his aid might have been of use. Unfortunately, there had been a bitter finality in Sylvia’s words. “I do not want your help,” she had declared, her feelings upon the matter painfully clear. Nonetheless, David decided, it was not her fortune alone, it was her brother’s as well. “I have been longing to meet you over the chess board. There are some matters that we must needs discuss.”

  “Chess? Me, sir?” The young man gave a bark of laughter. “Surely you jest? M’father was hard pressed to teach me the rudiments.”

  “There is no need for false modesty,” David said with a smile. “I know what manner of player you are.”

  “David, here is second sandglass,” Petrov said, grunting as he set the other hourglass with its base of heavy mahogany into place. “Madame Echec, is getting white pieces?”

  “As a matter of courtesy, since it was I who issued this damned challenge,” David agreed, then turned to William once more. “I would like to speak to you later, Gabriel.

  The youth nodded and withdrew to join the crowd as David frowned after him, thoughts of Sylvia rising in her brother’s wake. But banishing Sylvia’s image only gave sway to other worries. The simple task of arranging the board caused him to wax uneasy. Even as he set the last piece into place, he began to wonder if he was being foolish to allow Madame Echec to set the pace of the game.

  He pushed idly at the chess hourglass, watching the sand run down in a steady stream, one hour’s worth of time in each glass for a total of two hours. Two hours to decide the rest of his days. Unbidden, Sylvia’s words came to mind. “People’s lives are not pieces to be lost and won by skill or luck.” No matter of luck there, he had well and truly lost her by his own stupidity. Now, it seemed to matter little if he lost himself.

  David heard a high-pitched snigger, the sound as familiar as a filthy song that cannot be erased from memory however much one tries. It was Highslip’s laugh.

  “I am wagering against you,” the earl called when he noticed that he had caught Donhill’s attention.

  “‘Tis your money to lose,” David replied, his casual shrug belying the smoldering anger within. If Sylvia was foolish enough to accept Highslip’s blandishments it was none of his concern, but David would be damned if he would bankroll her seducer. His apathy diminishing, David tipped the hourglass back, emptying it once again to set it in readiness. Would that time could be recalled so easily.

  There was a stir at the door and the wagers and speculation ceased momentarily as the crowd gave way for the dark figure. She was swathed from head to toe in swirling robes. The voluminous black fabric yielded no clues as to age or form. The heavy dark veiling shielded her face from even the most penetrating of eyes. She moved toward the chair with a silent grace that suggested youth.

  “I am Madame Echec. My conditions, zey have been met?” she asked.

  Her voice was low and throaty with age or guile; the accent could be true French or a mere disguise, it was impossible to determine. David gestured toward the hourglasses, about to speak when Petrov stepped forward.

  “To the letter, Madame, we have been obeying your demands. However, before we are beginning, is one requirement I am proposing,” the Russian said.

  The black cloaked head inclined, listening.

  “Lord Donhill risks everything, you- nothing. If you are losing, you must unmask yourself,” Petrov demanded. “Or else you may be retiring now, your identity safe.”

  There was a general murmur of approval, for the dandies of St. James had been less than pleased to be deprived of their sport. The woman stood for a moment, her posture one of indecision.

  “Very well,” her muffled voice replied, slowly. “I shall hazard it.”

  Petrov stepped back, glad that he had secured his friend at least this small advantage. Madame Echec would have some cause to be nervous now, and that anxiety would likely make her vulnerable. Although none but a close comrade could have discerned it, David seemed less than his usual imperturbable self.

  The Russian began to fear for his friend. It did not auger well that Madame Echec was confident enough to risk the revelation of that which she had taken great pains to conceal. Indeed, many others seemed to be thinking upon those same lines, for the whispered odds against Madame Echec were decreasing.

  At David’s gesture, she seated herself before the white pieces, her gloved hands touching the mahogany base of the hourglass as she tilted first one, then the other, to and fro.

  “It is well,” she whispered. “Shall we begin?”

  It was like being within the realms of his nightmares, David decided as he automatically responded to her opening move with king’s pawn and flipped her sand to running. The faceless figure reached out with confidence, advancing her pieces in a mere matter of seconds, setting the sifting sand with a swiftness obviously borne of long practice. Forgetting to set her hourglass running after his move, David chided himself for stupidity, knowing that his hesitation could very well cost him the game. The world narrowed to the space of sixty-four squares of black and white.

  Sylvia had barely slept considering her strategy. Knowing her opponent’s penchant for careful defense, she moved with rapid precision countering him as his own intent unfolded. As she stopped her time and set his running out, she studied his face. Although the veiling obscured her vision somewhat, she could see the small signs of growing nervousness, the tightness of his jaw, the lines around his eyes.

  “Your move, Madame,” David said, tipping her glass with a pleased smile.

  She could hear the whisper of hushed approval. He had her trapped in a fork, his knight poised to take either rook or bishop. Madame Echec was glad of the curtain concealing her face as she moved the rook aside to sacrifice the bishop. Would he discern what she was planning? She swiftly set his glass flowing again.

  David paused for a few seconds, examining the board, but the inexorably shifting sand was almost a discernable force. A quick check of the forces arrayed upon the board showed that they were nearly even in power. He led by a single pawn, but Madame Echec seemed to have more grains of sand in the glass. It might represent only a few minute
s, yet those few granules of time might make a crucial difference if she chose to draw the game out. He took the bishop.

  Beneath the veil, Madame Echec grinned with delight. He could still recoup, withdraw himself from the brink of disaster, but it seemed that he was taking the bait. Deliberately, she drew his attention to the other side of the board, feinting an attack with her knight. She leaned back to watch, feeling the sweat run down her neck. Between the veiling, the heavy chador and the press of bodies, the heat was almost beyond endurance, but she would endure. She had to.

  David saw the opening immediately and took advantage of the seeming carelessness. “Echec,” he said, bringing his queen across the board. He tilted her hourglass with a triumphant flair, then leaned back to polish his glasses casually.

  “Blast,” Highslip cursed under his breath. “He is winning, damn him.”

  David set his spectacles on the table momentarily as he massaged his eyes. There was a clattering sound from the street outside and the shouted imprecations of draymen. Obviously, an accident had occurred.

  Even Madame Echec’s head was turned and Highslip saw his chance. While everyone's attention was temporarily directed elsewhere, he reached out to sweep Rutherford’s glasses to the floor.

  Madame Echec returned her regard to the board, moving her rook forward to protect her king, before setting David’s time running once more. “Your move, milord,” she growled, re-directing him to the game.

  David’s fingers reached for his glasses, but encountered only empty space.

  “Halt the clock!” he demanded. “My spectacles are gone.” The sands ceased running “No one move!” David warned “No one-” There was a heart-sickening crunch and Petrov bent down to pick up the lenses.